


Couldn’t You Wait? Slow Down for Me?

by Sukila



Series: The Messy Minds of Voltron's Paladins [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (and by that I mean), (kind of), Alien Culture, Bilingual Character(s), Bilingual Keith (Voltron), Character Study, Child Abandonment, Childhood Memories, Galra Keith (Voltron), Heavy Angst, I should really tone down the music metaphors but nah, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Keith (Voltron) Angst, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Keith (Voltron)-centric, Languages, Songfic, this is honestly a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-24 19:56:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14961155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sukila/pseuds/Sukila
Summary: Keith fingered the book, long kept from youth and long worn by the use. Passage after passage marked by darkened pencil marks and speckles of broken graphite as pleasant handwriting slowly transitioned. More and more messy as years went by, losing the looping and curves just as a worldview became tainted and cynical over the years. Every little thought, be it childish or adult, everything war marked by that same hand and, although he knew it was easy, he always felt it could never be erased.Or, in which Keith has some leftover feelings about Krolia, Shiro, and himself. His old memories haunting him with inadequacy as he recalls the end of all that he'd known and left behind. Those thoughts that now made him question all he'd gained since, making a single phrase out of a sorrowful lack of answers that he dare not ask a soul to answer, not even himself.





	Couldn’t You Wait? Slow Down for Me?

**Author's Note:**

> “Am I Supposed to Apologize” - Maria Mena  
> The way you said "I love you." - "In awe, the first time you realised it."  
> Might add visual aids later? I'm unsure.

_“I wrote a song, a journal_

_Gave it to the world_

_Told the story_

_Of when I was just a girl”_

 

Keith fingered the book, long kept from youth and long worn by the use. Passage after passage marked by darkened pencil marks and speckles of broken graphite as pleasant handwriting slowly transitioned. More and more messy as years went by, losing the looping and curves just as a worldview became tainted and cynical over the years. Every little thought, be it childish or adult, everything war marked by that same hand and, although he knew it was easy, he always felt it could never be erased.

 

None of it was English, nor any other understandable method from Earth, letters made of the unknown, and mirroring symbols he dare not study lest he be proven right. Left to bear witness to an ever growing loss of humanity as he reviewed his mother’s journals once more, and easily understood the symbols.

 

He’d left one, this one, to Shiro to look after when he left, wrote in a new one, and tried to forget old memories as he wallowed, suffering without his output. To see it strewn among Shiro’s surviving personal effects as he was tied down was almost like the final straw. Because it was the only thing Shiro had, really, outside the clothes on his back, as worn as they were.

 

Why did he protect it? It was something Keith had never had the courage to ask no matter how many times he reviewed the story. No matter what, he simply couldn’t tell, even if it seemed cruel to keep a lifeline from an amnesiac, he wouldn’t dare show his only family a reminder of pain, that his… His friend was related to anything alien.

 

_“I sought understanding_

_Clarity in truth_

_By baring all the wounds_

_Inflicted on my youth”_

 

It didn’t matter, he wouldn’t look himself, too haunted by memories of a past full of torment. To see repeats of bruises and days gone hungry at the hands of abusers. It wouldn’t help anything, to dwell anymore than nightmares already did on the subject, no matter what he did, his mind would never be able to conjure up a reason for why she left him.

 

The moment Shiro left would never stop repeating in his head, just as the hands of would-be guardians always pulled away from his own. Never allowed to feel like a worthy child, his only friend both pushing and pulling him into darkness, not that he’d ever dare blame Shiro for what was wrong with him.

 

Still, the thoughts remained, haunting in dreams and ever present in wakefulness as he pushed people, that could very well become his friends, away. Or, at least, that must be what he was doing, why else would nobody give him the time of day besides an old friend? Why else would he watch on with a bitter feeling inside, a calm collection on his face, and never change his ways to better fit what was wanted? It was simply his fault, for making people uncomfortable, for never getting the joke, for always being too emotional, that was that.

 

_“You criticized my choice_

_To stand up to my past_

_To give the pain a voice_

_So that it too could pass”_

 

The only insults he ever heard now were from himself. Like thousands of voices, they adopted the sound of those he’d met before, those he had grown the closest too (not that it was really much of a difference). He scolded the inability to give Shiro that journal he’d brought with him, for trying to be the loner and face things himself, even while craving a connection. In that way, it was a good thing there was a war to deal with, lest he be left without any excuses for pointless thoughts, and foolish behaviour.

 

What a terrible thing to think…

 

He stopped being prideful after the realisation, always on his own case for not being ready to face his own demons each night. Trained until exhaustion in a way that wasn’t for himself, but for the others who sometimes spoke of a ghost that sobbed in the hallways. Didn’t speak much either, efforts focused on culling the bother he was, and, eventually, a habit was made to stifle most everything.

 

_“But I felt brave_

_And filled with pride as I let go_

_Of bitterness that wouldn’t leave or let me grow”_

 

So, he told no one, and it made him smile, now, when a teammate talked of having a good sleep, a sure fire sign of his success. He didn’t linger too much on the praise of himself, but felt a sort of glowing pride when he woke with a start on the merciful nights only to find his voice muffled.

 

He had to stop holding grudges. He had to rid himself of pride, to stop putting everyone else through hell because of what was in his head. Because, while he knew he was broken beyond repair, putting himself to an impossible standard, at least, kept him from crumbling where they could see him.

 

_“And I will spend a lifetime_

_Trying to understand_

_Why someone sharing my bloodline_

_Would not lend me their hand”_

 

It was strange, caring about someone else’s feelings, well, other than Shiro’s. His life had been a long pattern of monotonous behaviour that showed no chance of changing. A child promised impossible things like protection or care, despite never deserving any of it to begin with, because he’d never earned anything.

 

His body stiffened under the touch of any hand, and he’d watch their face fall as his remained apathetic, a flimsy mask to unshed tears and a chastising voice. A voice that sounded like his mother, he thinks, with careful, deeper tones so different than what he remembered of his father’s southernisms.

 

His mother’s voice, or so he thought, ringing with insults bred from his mind and left to linger within every inch of his person. Mixing and matching with Allura’s, Shiro’s, and even the others, at times.

 

_“Am I supposed to apologize?_

_Am I supposed to apologize?”_

 

In a way, he was thankful to Allura, for acting as he thought the others would, for being a constant and openly displaying her disdain for him. It reminded him of the faces Shiro would make when he saw the latest mess he’d made, whether it was his, or someone else’s that he’d taken the blame for, it still produced a bubble of shame. He now felt that same unpleasantness when the weight of her stare passed over him, and he made an active effort to never falter when she was present.

 

He figured, if he didn’t react, she’d continue, unafraid of his feelings, never stuck in an awkward silence that would truly force one out of the room. Because, on so many occasions, it was the only thing he had to ground himself with, and firmly cement his mind in reality; he needed to be hated by someone other than himself, he knew that.

 

_“I loved her more than myself_

_But she made me choose_

_Between her and my father_

_And so I refused”_

 

It had been her handwriting he’d learned from, with long hours, just he and his father, working over the script. It had been before his death, where his memories were the most fuzzy, oddly enough, giving back lengthy images of purple hair between tiny fingers, but little to nothing of his father. That is, besides the shape of his hands as he led them through an orchestra’s symbols, musical on their tongues, born out of lines and careful marks; he’d wanted him to learn it so badly, a brutal pace having been set when he was still young.

 

He’d read her notes only when the dirt over his father’s grave had settled; had lost himself in each symbol as they transcribed years of observations, both before her time on Earth, and during. It was an outsider’s perspective, one he could hardly understand himself, despite being born just as any child would be.

 

His mother had left him her blade, wanting him to know, but to grow into the person her husband was. His father had drilled him in a language until he was the only fluent person on Earth, wanting him to grow into a sort of destiny he’d thought had been set aside for Keith.

 

It was selfish of him, but he would’ve traded anything, including their destinies, to spend the time being loved by them, instead.

 

_“I fled her house and wrath_

_Eleven years of age_

_Followed the crooked path_

_That led me to a stage”_

 

The house was empty of presence. Nothing left but blurry shapes in his memories, filled with old photographs covered by tears, and the rumbling sound of his stomach, coupled with the wetness in his lungs. The book- _Her_ book stared back at him, answering none of his questions, leaving him with nothing but wasted dreams and bitter words. He’d screamed at it, chucking it across the room with a mighty howl in words only he would ever recognise again.

 

There was nothing left for him there, nor anywhere else. So he locked the door, stringing the only key through an anklet that jingled as he stepped. His bag was full of provisions, heart full of lead, and body with dread as he stumbled off the porch, and through the desert on the stubby legs of a child.

 

And although he hadn’t cried at the time, the memory continued to haunt him to date, bringing out a rainstorm to chase away the heat of the baking sun as it burned the pale skin treading below it; truly, Keith would never have a greater regret than being left behind, something he’d always be convinced was his fault.

 

_“The curtains opened up_

_My heart followed the lead_

_The music wouldn’t stop_

_And I could finally breathe”_

 

After leaving the only structure for miles, he’d felt the longing turn to a gleeful sort of hysteria, because he’d _escaped._ Finally he was free from the memories, the bitterness, the lonesome quiet reminding him of the fact that he was without anyone to love him.

 

He became jaded, he knew this, the tender music of his childhood heart turning into a mess of wrong notes as it was interrupted again and again. The weight of a fist against him, the intrusive stroke of a finger over his face, as though he belonged to another, and the brunt of harsh words as they were slapped against his ears, tearing through his head, shredding his little heart.

 

They called him a freak as he screamed in a language no one knew the name of, begging for help, begging to go back, begging, begging, _begging._

 

They told him he was unloveable, a burden, a foolish brat still speaking toddler, and, sometimes, nothing at all, choosing to, instead, cut through him with harsh glares or a painful lesson.

 

The spark dulled in violet eyes, flickering into a mess of memories he’d rather forget, and tender moments flushed away by pain and betrayal.

 

It lashed at him, and he missed the older times, back when he didn’t know the pain of tomorrow, and when, despite his claims, he could still feel the ragged breaths he took.

 

_“But I will spend a lifetime_

_Trying to understand_

_Why someone sharing my bloodline_

_Would not lend me their hand”_

 

She was his mom- His _mother._ The one who’d left him without a clue, left him with nothing but a book of old memories that gave no context as to who she was, and even less of what he was supposed to be. A mess of a language in his head that he’d long since sworn off using, only belting out syllables in nightmares, or flinching at the sound of hidden messages within Galran phrases. And a knife that had almost gotten him killed, with accusations flying over him as the only people who he could’ve ever hoped to explain who he was pinned him to the ground.

 

Allura had told him she was sorry, his mother had come out of some unknown woodwork without a single word as to why, and Shiro...he wasn’t sure of anymore.

 

He wasn’t sure of anything, really.

 

Because he’d told himself the team hated him, that he always pulled them into every mess he made. Yet, they still looked to him like a leader, even when he’d utterly failed, and even abandoned the task.

 

Because he was certain Allura still held that malice, at times, almost needed her to. But, instead, she gave a sort of gentle smile he couldn’t explain, furrowing her eyebrows and eyes lighting up with sympathy.

 

Because there was no way his mother wanted him, not after all the types of broken he turned out to be. Then she said it, and shattered every perception he’d ever had, that she’d never leave him again.

 

_“Am I supposed to apologize?_

_Am I supposed to apologize?”_

 

He wrote it again and again in that same tongue, muttering the phrase under his breath as the markings grew messier and messier, melting into a song all their own. The ratty, torn-up book lay in front of him, as tiny and purple as it had always been, with entire pages dedicated to the words Shiro had said to him.

 

To be patient, and gain focus. That he believed in him, and would never give up on him. That they held a love between them, a bond he’d never known before, born out of a blossoming friendship and what must have been a sense of pity for such a troublesome child.

 

He’d fallen in love with the one who’d saved him, a deep, flaring feeling that had thrown bellows in his heart and coaxed the embers back to life. One that encouraged him to fight for something, and brought back a meaningfulness in the mauve of each iris, one that didn’t fade. Not even as the voice of his (brother? Friend? Family? Love?) only person left wavered in his head, repeating everything he’d once been told, everything he kept repeating to himself.

 

The person who’d told him he was more than his demons had vanished, just like the rest, yet he’d struggled to the surface of a listless depression, kicking and flailing, and refusing to give up.

 

And he waited for him, like he’d once waited for his mom, finally sure of where he’d gone- _Up._

 

Shiro hadn’t cured him of the threads that tangled in his body, nor had his leaving redone every knot he’d managed to free. And it had done nothing but beg the question of why he’d even cared as much as he had, rather than the bitter breath of why he’d left him behind.

 

Still, the phrase repeated, again and again as his group did things for him, as they welcomed him back, as they never grew tired of loving like so many others seemed to have before.

 

The one he jotted between the margins in arching runes, that lined crevices and cracks with invisible script, that he knew better than his own name, so much so that he could probably scratch them into his arm:

 

“Why do they bother?”

 

If only he could understand that, maybe then he’d finally feel it again, the trapped air coming out his lungs, wet with the frequent bouts of sickness, but tangible and present like it hadn’t been in years.

 

If he could just understand why, maybe he’d finally be able to love again, to think of forgiveness as something he’s able to give, to quell the constant uncertainty and need for punishment he carried each day.

 

Then again, he had a feeling he’d only frustrate them if he asked, like when he failed to understand other basic concepts. Or keep them up with his haunted shouts in the night, and the steady pace of a nightwalker as he trudged through the halls.

 

He’d bury it again, the question, the feelings, the unsureties, _everything._ Not for himself, but for the idea of a limited timespace, one that told him they might just disappear at any time, leaving the norm to be uprooted in a cruel cycle he ever always continued to follow for lack of an alternate course.

 

And maybe he was more afraid of that than any word of the whispering voices that constantly muttered everything he had to apologise for.


End file.
